


Cute Bakery Girl

by kittensmctavish



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming Out, Don't copy to another site, F/F, Feelings Realization, Femslash February, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Love Confessions, Not Beta Read, References to Shakespeare, Shakespeare Quotations, The Reynolds Pamphlet, We Die Like Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 09:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22968085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittensmctavish/pseuds/kittensmctavish
Summary: In her mind, and in her phone, you are "Cute Bakery Girl" to Eliza.(From Eliza's POV.)
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler/Original Female Character(s), Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 70





	Cute Bakery Girl

**Author's Note:**

> first fic i've written in to months. first hamilfic i've written in two years. please be kind. i'm greatly out of practice.
> 
> there's five minutes left of femslash february on my calendar, i'm counting it.

There’s a bakery Eliza passes by on her walk to work, in a hallway that connects one building with the building she works in. Always in her periphery, but never in her mind long enough for the thought of “Hmm…I should stop in there some time for a treat” to stick with her.

No, every work day, catching up on messages from her sisters as she walks, in the corner of her eye does she catch the blur of displays of pastel-frosted donuts, chocolate-iced cupcakes, the cross-section of a rainbow-tiered crepe tower. The faint chatter of baker-and-customer exchanges, perhaps the whir of a mixer or clink of a bowl against a counter filters through in one ear and out the other, adding to the white noise of her commute, as it were.

One opening night of a show she’s in, their director surprises them with a box of donuts as a treat. From said bakery Eliza always passes. The variety is wonderful and a little amusing—her favorite to look at being a maple-glazed long john with a strip of bacon centered in the middle of the frosting. There’s one with Fruity Pebbles that is snagged before she can think to do so, and she opts instead for just a plain glazed (as everyone else clamors for the fancier ones).

As far as plain glazed donuts go, it’s…actually quite good. Not hard to surpass the efforts of what one might find at any given grocery store, but even beyond that, it has her curious about some of those other flavors. Along with whatever else they may sell there.

So one afternoon, on her lunch break, she backtracks to the bakery and steps in, taking in the simple white walls of the small place, the sort-of-familiar displays she always passes by—all fake, of course. She breathes in…there’s the very faintest hint of something baking…not overwhelming or anything, but just enough to entice, make one curious as to what might be in store.

As she turns her sights to what’s actually for sale, Eliza hears a voice call a “hello!” from a corner in the kitchen that Eliza can’t see. She smiles politely as you walk up, scrubbing a towel over your hands.

“Anything I can help you with?” you ask.

“Oh…no, just looking for now,” Eliza says.

“Okay, let me know when you need anything.” Eliza returns your smile—something she finds easy to do. Sometimes, smiling back at someone in retail or service feels so forced…like, the thing both of you HAVE to do because society dictates so. But…there’s something so genuine about your smile that Eliza finds her own lingering at the corners of her mouth as she focuses her attention once again on the baked goods.

Donuts, cupcakes, cookies…even a platter of scones, and another tray stacked with giant soft pretzels. Outside of the traditional, the names for the flavors are eye-catching and irreverent, with smaller text beneath further describing the flavor profile. Some gluten-free options, some vegan options…some empty trays of flavors already sold out for the day.

“What’s the ‘scone od the day’?” Eliza asks, pointing at the tray of savory scones, next to the sweet scones.

“Ham, cheddar, and chive,” you inform. “Like Red Lobster biscuits, only heartier. Had one for lunch one day last week and it kept me going until end of day.”

“I bet,” Eliza says, given the size of the scones and the visible chinks of ham studded through the baked dough. “Um…” Her eyes dart over the displays again.

“Overwhelming?” you ask.

“Just a little bit,” Eliza admits with a little embarrassed laugh, feeling her face heat up. But you own kind laugh ebbs any further embarrassment.

“I get that…a lot to choose from, and never the same thing every day.”

“What would you recommend?”

“…it’s unfair to say ‘everything’ because that’s not really of any help…” Eliza’s laugh at your remark is more genuine. “Any dietary restrictions or allergies I should know about? We do our best to prevent cross-contamination, but we’re not a certified facility for that kind of baking or anything like that.”

“No, no allergies or anything like that,” Eliza says.

“How adventurous are you?” you ask. “When it comes to trying new things?”

Your question gives Eliza pause. Not because it’s hard to answer, but…just, the wording of it catches her offguard.

“Why don’t you choose for me?” she finally says, at a loss for anything else to say. You raise your eyebrows.

“You trust me so readily?” you ask, enough of a lilt in your voice to tell Eliza you’re teasing.

“I mean, you’re the one behind the counter, and I assume you bake as well…” She pauses as you nod. “I defer to your judgment in this regard.”

Eliza waits as you seem to study her. She tries to keep herself from shifting awkwardly or glancing away from you.

“Think I have just the thing,” you finally say, reaching for a bag and a sheet of that crinkly almost waxy paper one uses to pick up donuts from a donut tray. Eliza almost balks as you reach for a tray of donuts in front of a sign that reads “Blushing Berry.” Given how hot her face feels, a blush must be evident on her face, and you must be teasing her further in choosing such a named flavor.

“Sweet,” you say, moving over to the cash register, “and a little unexpected.” Eliza raises her eyebrows at the comment but says nothing, handing over a few bills. The register pops open, and you slide the bag and some coins over to Eliza. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Thank you, you too,” Eliza says, dropping the coins into her wallet before reaching for the bag.

“Please come back again.”

“Thank you, you too,” Eliza repeats.

She walks out of the bakery, moves her bag into her other hand, and the halts in the middle of the hallway. Had she REALLY just said “you too” in a context that did not warrant a “you too” like an idiot?

She almost hesitates to look back and through the window of the bakery, to see if you’re laughing at her or rolling your eyes or anything. Instead, she keeps walking forward, intent with going on about her day and forgetting all about her awkward exchange with you.

When she’s back at work, after finishing her lunch, Eliza takes out the donut, careful not to let any sugar or flakes of frosting get everywhere, and takes a small bite.

You’d said “sweet, and a little unexpected.” And you had not been wrong. Eliza hadn’t expected such a lovely real strawberry flavor from the sugar. Artificial, perhaps, but no…this pointed to using actual fruit to get that desired fruity flavor.

She had wondered, briefly, if your words in describing the donut were meant to describe Eliza. Much like she had wondered if your question about Eliza being adventurous was…flirtatious, to put it mildly.

She finishes her donut, wishing she had a little more time in her break to really savor just how good it is, and prepares to get back to work, making a mental note to visit the bakery some time again. To try something else. And maybe to see you again (she would not be averse.)

***

Eliza’s next jaunt to the bakery is the same day, same time the following week. And sure enough, she walks in and sees a familiar figure approach with a familiar “hello!”

“You came back again!” you say, and Eliza doesn’t miss the teasing glint in your eye.

“So did you,” she returns, owning up to her verbal faux pas. That gets almost a cackle out of you.

“Of course I did, I work here,” you say.

“I’m sorry about that, that was so embarrassing.”

“Please don’t be, we’ve all had moments like that.”

“Still…”

“I’ll try to end our conversation this time with something where ‘you too’ is a perfectly acceptable response.”

“Stop,” Eliza giggles, feeling her face heat again. (This seems to happen in your vicinity…Eliza doesn’t know if she likes it.)

“Anyway…” You clap your hands together. “What can I do for you today?” Eliza glances at the display.

“What the scone of the day?” Eliza asks, pointing once again at the tray of savory scones.

“Ham and cheddar today,” you say. “Just ham and cheddar. No chive. I hope that’s not disappointing.”

“No, no, just…devastating,” Eliza says with a little sigh, before she quickly smiles, scrunching her nose playfully.

“You almost had me believing you for a second,” you laugh.

“No, but I would like one of those scones, please,” Eliza says. “Lunch for today.”

“Smart woman,” you comment as you whip a bag open and reach for a scone. “Tell you what, I’m gonna give you this little baby scone as well, on the house.”

“…really? You don’t have to—”

“Nah, it’s a baby, it’s barely a scone,” you insist. Glancing at the size of said “baby scone,” Eliza can see your point. Maybe.

“Well…thank you,” she says as she takes out her wallet. Payment is exchanged for bake goods, as are thank you, have a good day’s.

“I hope to see you again,” you say with a little teasing smile.

“Thank you, you too,” Eliza says, barely keeping the laughter out of the words or the roll out of her eyes. But she takes it in stride, knowing you’re just teasing about her slip of the tongue from last week.

It’s definitely that. Even if she also wonders briefly if more “flirting” is going on, and that you do genuinely want to see her again.

(She doesn’t know how she feels about that…or why she interprets her interactions with you as such.)

Just the one larger scone is, as you said, filling enough to get her through the afternoon. She saves the “baby scone”—actually more sizable than Eliza had originally though—for Alexander, when she meets up with him later that night (his roommate letting her in, finding him at his desk, typing furiously away at something, as is his wont).

“Brought you something,” she says, kissing his cheek and setting the back next to his arm.

“Hmm?” he says, looking away from his laptop screen to kiss her briefly and pick up the bag. “What’s this?”

“Scone from that bakery near where I work,” Eliza says as he withdraws said scone. He takes a bite.

“…wow…that’s really good,” he says when he’s finished chewing. “Thanks, Bets.” He kisses her again, a stray crumb of scone transferring from his lips to hers in the process. “Haven’t eaten anything yet tonight.”

“Alexander, we’ve talked about this,” she begins.

“I know, I know, I need to take a break, walk around, get some food,” Alex sighs, pushing away from his desk a little. “I just get in a zone, you know. Wanna get it all out before I forget it.”

“I know,” she says, wrapping her arms around his shoulders from behind. “There’s nothing wrong with taking a break now and then, though. The zone’s not always good, you know.”

“I know, I know,” he repeats. His shoulders relax under her arms as she presses a lingering kiss to his cheek. He turns to look at her when she pulls away, reaching up to brush her thumb against his cheek. “I don’t deserve you.” Eliza tilts her head down, smiles her “of course you do” back to him before kissing the tip of his nose and then his lips again, longer than before. He returns her kiss for just long enough that she thinks—she hopes—it’ll get him away from his desk for the night.

But when he breaks the kiss and rests her forehead against her, she hears him murmur, “…I’ve just got a little more writing to do tonight.” Her disappointment must be visible, because he reaches up to touch her face again. “Just a little bit more, I promise, and then I’m yours for the night.”

“…okay.” She squeezes his shoulders and lets him roll back at his desk, the clicking of keys following her as she leaves the room.

***

She returns to the bakery a few more times, not always on the same day as her first two visits. Sometimes, you are not there, which…she hesitates to say is disappointing, since the rest of the staff at the bakery are just as friendly. But it’s not the same as when you are there, and it irks Eliza somewhat that she’s not sure why. After all, she doesn’t really know you outside of the bakery. Heck, she doesn’t even know your name.

She’s taken to calling you Bakery Girl in her head. After one day where she visits during a rush (you baking as someone else mans the counter), that gets revised to Cute Bakery Girl. Mostly because the sight of you piping frosting on to dozens of cupcakes, hair in slight disarray, flour smudged on apron and cheek, is indeed rather cute.

She picks up a variety of donuts to share with Angelica and Peggy one weekend, and after one bite each, they’re understandably miffed at her.

“How have you walked by that place for literal years and NEVER stopped in until recently?” Peggy asks around a mouthful of apple fritter. “I almost want to smack you, these are AMAZING.”

“They ARE quite good,” Angelica says, tearing off a bit of her cruller and popping it into her mouth.

“They do cupcakes, too,” Eliza says. “And cookies and scones.”

“…well, now I’m just more upset that you’ve only just discovered this place,” Peggy says, setting down her fritter in indignation.

“We should all go together one day,” Angelica suggests.

Which they do. You aren’t there that day, but it’s fine.

Eliza hadn’t mentioned “Cute Bakery Girl” to her sisters, lest they get some sort of impression from the “Cute” thing. Or all the teasing and flirting that Eliza’s decided has to be intentional by this point. What else explains all the free pastries you keep foisting on her?

You ARE there the morning she brings Alexander, him having wanted to visit the place that makes “the best damn scones he’s ever had.”

“Hey, stranger!” you call as Eliza enters, Alexander’s arm around her waist.

“Stranger?” Alex laughs, looking over at Eliza.

“She happens to work here most times I’ve visited,” Eliza explains, inwardly questioning the sudden need to justify her camaraderie with you.

“She’s quickly become a regular,” you pipe in, and Eliza’s not sure, but your smile seems a little…not as genuine. Or not as easy to come to your lips. She swears your eyes flicker to Alex’s arm firmly settled around her waist, and she wonders why she feels like she just betrayed you in some sense. “What can I do for you two today?”

Alex, unsurprisingly, asks if they have anything coffee-flavored. He’s in luck—twist donuts with a cinnamon swirl in the dough, with an espresso frosting, striped with chocolate icing.

He orders that, and a scone for later. Eliza opts for plain coated in sugar.

She wonders, briefly, what comment you’d make about her order for the day. “Simple and sweet,” probably. (You always seem to do that…describe her order in a way that also seems to describe her…)

No such comment is made today, though, not as you ring the both of them up.

“I got this, Betsey,” Alex says as Eliza begins to take out her wallet. “Lord knows you’ve treated me enough.”

“Very sweet of you,” you comment, taking Alex’s card and swiping it.

“Thank you,” Eliza says. Alex squeezes her waist and smothers her cheek in ticklish kisses. “Alex, stop, please.” She giggles as she says so, but they ARE in public. (And in your presence. And again, Eliza feels strangely guilty for it…at how, once again, you seem more subdued than every other time she’s visited.)

“Enjoy,” you say, handing Alex his card. “Have a great rest of your day.”

“Thanks,” Alex says, taking the bag.

“Thank you,” Eliza parrots. “Have a good day as well.”

You nod. Smile. Again, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Eliza mostly listens to Alex rave over his donut and nods at all the right places as he talks about the latest thing he’s been writing. She eats her donut slowly. Despite its simplicity and the lightness of the dough, it sits heavier in her stomach than other more outrageous flavors have.

***

After that visit, Eliza can’t help but feel like you two never get back to the same rapport you’d had before. You’re still as nice as can be, but the teasing dials back considerably. And the free random goodies, while they do still happen on occasion, happen less frequently than before.

Eliza tries not to take too much stock in it, figuring that maybe the reason for the latter was your manager noticing a penchant for wanting to give food away rather than it being paid for. Which is completely understandable. And Eliza has always, to a degree, felt guilty about these gifts, despite your insistence that it was okay.

But she does sort of miss the teasing…not so much in the sense that she WANTED you to tease her or flirt with her…but simply because you seem less like the you that you’d come to know.

The week of Valentine’s Day comes and she doesn’t see much of you at all. That entire week seems to be mayhem for the bakery. She walks by one day and slows down at the sight of dozens of boxes of dozens of donuts stacked up and ready to be picked up. She can’t imagine just how busy you must be.

Valentine’s Day for Eliza and Alex isn’t as…romantic, per se, as their first Valentine’s together. She figures they’ve been together long enough that the honeymoon phase has passed and a more low-key but intimate thing is just fine by her. Even if Alex does have to tear himself away from his never-ending writing to do so.

She understands he’s a bit of a workaholic and figures that’s probably why he’s not QUITE as affectionate or…PDA-y as he used to be.

Rather, she figured.

Because shortly after Valentine’s Day, her world turns upside down.

***

Alex, for god knows how long, has been cheating on her.

He doesn’t confess this to her. Not directly. Not outright.

Someone found out about his dalliances with one Maria Reynolds. And before they could tell Eliza or anyone else, Alex decided to do it himself. Draft an ongoing, detailed Facebook post about the whole affair—interactions, correspondences, everything.

It’s there for all to see. Not just Eliza. Not just her, but her family, their friends, coworkers, acquaintances, god know who else, know every sin that has been committed against her.

And Maria…Eliza should by all accounts hate the woman who’s been in her boyfriend’s bed. But she reads the post…reads the truths revealed about Maria’s own life…and she imagines the mortification Maria feels of having her status as an “other woman” exposed to her own circle of people she knows…and she can’t help but sympathize with Maria. (She doesn’t want to meet her necessarily…but she would not wish what she is going through…what BOTH of them are going through…on anyone.)

She calls in sick at work, at play rehearsals. She doesn’t leave her apartment for days. Her sisters come knocking, worried, say all the things Eliza does not want to hear right now.

When she does finally leave her place, it’s to storm Alexander’s apartment when he’s not there, his roommate letting her in without a word. She digs through his desk, where she knows he keeps every letter she ever wrote him.

She hears Alexander call her name as she finds the trove, snatches them up and holds them tight just as he walks in. She storms past him without a word. He pleads with her to let him keep them, and that plea, among all his other pleas, is what makes her whirl around.

“You have no right to my heart anymore,” Eliza spits, holding up every now-hollow sentiment she ever wasted on him. “You forfeited that the moment you brought that girl into your bed.” Alexander begins to try and argue, sweet-talk his way back into his heart, but she refuses to give him the opportunity. “You can comfort yourself with your memories of when you were mine.”

“Betsey—”

“I will not allow you the opportunity to use my words against me like you did to this girl. You have RUINED our lives with what you’ve done. Mine and hers and yours.”

A touch hyperbolic, perhaps. But it shuts Alexander up. And she certainly feels ruined enough for those words to be valid.

She leaves without another word, to him or his roommate (only barely acknowledging the subtle sympathetic nod from the roommate as he closes the door to the apartment behind her).

Her letters to him join his letters to her and every other memento connecting them together in a pile on the floor of her bedroom. She sits on her bed, knees bunched up to her chest, staring at the pile, vision blurring, but not from tears.

She hasn’t cried yet. She hasn’t allowed herself to. She’s been too angry to. She feels too much to.

She doesn’t know what to do with everything…nothing feels final enough…ripping to pieces, running through a shredder, hurling out a window…

…she has to get out again. Away from the physical memories while she tries to cope with the intangible ones.

She walks the streets, through building to building, and she finds herself heading down a familiar hallway and into a familiar bakery, where a familiar voice greets her, a familiar you walking over.

It’s almost like she happened upon here in a daze, that her feet led her to here without knowing, and though her eyes are on the display of donuts and cupcakes, she doesn’t really see them, It’s all a bit of a blur…

She blinks. The donuts blur even more. She feels something fall from her face.

As Eliza reaches up to feel what fell, and her hearing fades back in to you asking “…going on? …are you okay?” Eliza looks back down at her fingers, having brushed a tear away from her cheek.

And with the knowledge that one or two tears have loosed, it’s like a dam breaks. And Eliza feels her face crumple as she begins to sob.

She has no words for you right away. Can’t begin to try to explain why and what or apologize for causing a scene or anything like that. Can’t voice her assertion that it’s okay, you don’t need to walk over to the other side of the counter, over to her, to wrap an arm around her and lead her away from the display.

But she’s actually grateful for the hand that takes her wrist, gently pushes her shoulder to ease her into a chair, pushes napkins into her hand. She wipes her tears away and blinks back into a bit more awareness to watch you quickly closing the doors to the bakery, setting up signs.

“I can take a second lunch,” you say, walking back over to her with more napkins, sitting in the chair across from Eliza. “At least, until I know you’re gonna leave here feeling at least a little better.” Eliza nods, though the fresh bout of tears probably don’t help you feel reassured of what you’ve just said.

“I’m so sorry,” Eliza begins, still crying. “I didn’t mean to—” You gently shush her, reaching out to place a hand over her wrist. And that gesture, that comfort, sets Eliza off again, almost embarrassingly so.

“I think this calls for tea,” you say. “Or coffee.”

“Tea, please,” Eliza manages. You nod, standing and saying you’ll be right back.

As the clatter of china fills the space, Eliza tries to gather herself, to calm down a bit. Napkins come back sodden with tears, streaked with the last remnants of whatever eye makeup she’d foolishly thought she could wear today unscathed. She’s still steeling herself with deep calming breaths when you come back with two cups on saucers, setting one down in front of her.

“Vanilla peppermint green tea,” you say. Eliza nods, placing a hand on the cup and handle. Still too hot to drink, but the heat emanating from the china grounds her a little more.

“Thank you,” she says. You nod again, the smallest smile on your lips, as though smiling too much at this moment isn’t appropriate.

“You don’t have to talk about whatever’s going on if you don’t want to,” you say. “We can just sit here and drink tea until you feel like you can go home okay. But I’m willing to listen if you need someone to talk to. Even if we don’t know each other very well…”

It’s true. They don’t. Eliza still doesn’t know your name (and would never confess to calling you Cute Bakery Girl in her head), and you’ve never talked much outside of you selling her baked goods.

But perhaps…perhaps you’re the best person to confide to for all of this. The most neutral of parties. Someone who doesn’t have a bias going in.

So she begins. Shaky throughout, she basically recounts the whole of her relationship with Alexander, the Facebook post, the fallout from that, how she’s seeing signs now that she should have seen earlier, how she took back her letters, how they’re mingled with his, how she doesn’t know what to do with them, how best to get rid of them. Just as the dam on her tears burst earlier, once the words start, she can’t seem to stop them.

You remain quiet as Eliza talks, nodding and waiting if Eliza pauses to take a moment, gather herself together again. You reach over at one point to loosen her hold on a napkin balled up in her hand, replace it with a fresh one not stained with tears and mascara.

Finally, Eliza feels empty of words. Empty of tears. Empty of…feeling almost. She’s back to a place of numb, but a different numb. Before, it had been a shocked numb. A processing numb. Now, it’s an exhausted and empty numb.

“If he ever sets foot in this establishment again…” you begin. “…I can’t refuse him service, but he’ll certainly be receiving a cold reception from me.” Eliza huffs a little hollow laugh into a napkin. “And possibly we’ll be out of his favorites for the foreseeable future, even if we secretly aren’t.” Another little huff. “…I’m glad you got all that out. Not to me, necessarily, but…it’s good to talk to someone about these things.” Eliza nods.

“Thank you for listening to me,” Eliza says, taking a sip of her tea, peppermint and vanilla dancing on her tongue. “For…closing up shop to listen to me. You really didn’t have to.”

“It’s been a slow day anyway,” you say with a shrug. “…you’re always welcome here. For anything, Betsey.” Eliza shakes her head.

“Please don’t call me that,” Eliza says, wincing at the coldness in her tone. You nod.

“Sorry. I thought that was your name. When the two of you came in that one day—”

“I know, it’s…that was his nickname for me. Only he ever called me that. I don’t think I’ll ever want to be called that again.”

You nod. “Understandable.” A pause. “…what would you like for me to call you then?” Eliza smiles wanly.

“Kinda funny how one can pour one’s heart out to someone when you don’t know their name and they don’t know yours, isn’t it?” she comments.

“TO be fair, you’ve always paid with cash,” you say. “Never got a name from a card.”

“Fair point.” Eliza extends her hand. “Elizabeth Schuyler. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” You take her hand, grip firm but gentle, skin soft in places and rough in others. You give her your name in return. Eliza repeats it, for herself, to keep in her mind. “Thank you for all your service. For this bakery.” You laugh, squeezing her hand a little.

“It’s not MY bakery, I just work here, but…thank you for being such a devoted customer,” you offer in return. It’s the closest Eliza’s felt to smiling an honest-to-goodness smile in days, even if she doesn’t quite manage one. “So…Elizabeth?”

“Eliza, if you prefer,” she says. “People usually go with one of those two.”

“…Lizzie?”

“…don’t think anyone’s ever tried that one on me yet.”

“Do you like it?”

“…I don’t hate it.”

She realizes she’s still holding your hand, poised to shake but no longer shaking. Grip slackened to a hold, thumb stroking over the top of her hand. You seem to have noticed at the same time, because your hand retreats before hers. Perhaps it’s from how long your hands had been joined, but her skin suddenly feels colder from the absence of yours.

“I have some friends who live in a house that has a fire pit,” you say. “If you want, we can go there one night and put it to use for those letters and other things you’d like to be rid of.”

Burning them…that…Eliza likes that idea of that…finds herself nodding. You walk over to the counter, reach behind it for a pen and a scrap of receipt paper.

“Here’s my number,” you say, scribbling something down when you sit at the table again. “When you’re ready to go pyro on him, call me and I’ll work it out with my friends so you can do what you need to.”

“Will you be there?” Eliza asks. You pause. “I mean…they’re your friends. I don’t…” Eliza doesn’t know how to finish.

“If you want me to be there, I can,” you say. Eliza nods. You nod back. “Then of course I will.”

“I’m almost tempted to ask if we can do it tonight,” Eliza says. “But…that would maybe be too hasty on my part.”

“We’ll make it work,” you say. Eliza stands up, you quickly following suit, stepping over to her side.

“I think…I think I can get home without breaking down again.”

“You sure?” you ask. “If you wanna stick around until close, I can walk home with you.”

“No, you’ve done so much for me already today.”

“…well, I’m about to do more.” You slide over the counter and over to the display, reaching for a box and setting as assortment of donuts and cupcakes and scones in side for you. As Eliza opens her mouth to begin to protest, you hold a finger up. “Don’t you dare. You clearly deserve these.”

“Please at least let me pay for them,” Eliza insists, taking out her wallet. “I will feel even worse if you let me walk out of here with all of that for free.” You pause. “Please.” And it’s the utterance of your name that gets you to relent and punch the order into the cash register.

“You’re getting my employee discount, at the very least,” you say, holding up a finger. “Meet me in the middle on this, at least, Lizzie. I’m just…I want to do a nice thing for a friend and treasured customer.” Eliza finally nods before handing over her credit card.

“I’ll be in touch,” she says when you hand her card back.

“Let me know how you’re doing tonight, okay?” you ask. Eliza nods. “You’re in my thoughts and heart, Eliza.”

“Lizzie. You can try Lizzie if you want.”

“…you’re in my thoughts and heart, Lizzie.”

Something in you saying that…Eliza swears she feels the first piece of herself click back into place.

Later that night, after a donut or two, she enters your number into her phone and shoots you a text on how she’s feeling. You respond shortly after.

When setting up your contact info, despite knowing your true name now, Eliza still enters your name as “Cute Bakery Girl.”

Because it makes her smile. And not much is doing that these days.

***

About a week later is when Eliza contacts you about your friends and the fire pit.

She ends up stopping at the bakery after work, staying until after you’ve closed up for the night.

She rides in your car as you drive to a suburb not too far outside the city, turning down residential streets until pulling into a driveway.

Your friends have quite a spread set up, soon completed by whatever leftover baked goods you have from the bakery that weren’t claimed. Kebabs are grilled over the fire (and sausages are roasted on sticks, for those who wanted a more campfire-y experience). Followed by s’mores, of course, it’s only fitting. (Even though there are donuts and cupcakes.)

For someone they’ve never met, your friends welcome Eliza with the most open of arms. She sort of wishes she’d invited Angelica and Peggy, or some of the people she acts with…this crowd’s a good crowd.

A couple of bottles of wine are opened after a time, glasses poured, and as the sky darkens, the crowd settles around the fire, sipping red and white as failed relationships are commiserated over, regardless of how amicable or un- the breakup was.

You hadn’t shared any details of what’s going on with Eliza—something Eliza appreciates. It doesn’t hurt as much to recount it this time, though she leaves some details out that she’d let slip to you. Nothing too telling or that takes away from the story, but just…things, in retrospect, she wants to keep between as few people as already know.

Eliza doesn’t react when the torch passes to you, for your to share your story. If she’s affected at all by your referring to a “she” and “her,” she doesn’t show it. There’s nothing wrong with it, of course, but knowing you like women affects her nonetheless somehow.

She takes a few sips of wine, but her glass remains mostly untouched. She wants to assure she’s of sound mind when she does what she’s been granted access to…

And when that time comes, your friends duck back into the house under the pretense of cleaning up from dinner.

“I can go help them, if you prefer,” you say, pointing your thumb back in the direction of the house.

“No, you can stay,” Eliza says. “I…I want you here.” She looks down and kicks the box full of letters and other various items a little closer to her, away from the side of the chair she’s been sitting in, as you walk back over next to her.

Eliza stands. This is the kind of thing that warrants standing, she figures. She sets the box on the chair next to her and picks up the first letter. She ducks down to hold it above the fire, watching the first corner catch flame, keeping hold of it until the flame creeps up a bit too high towards her hand before dropping it into the pit. She watches the paper curl and crinkle into blackened ash.

If she does this letter by letter, it’ll be dawn by the time she’s finished. (Alexander never stops writing…this includes when he was wooing her…the box is weighty with hollow sentiments.) So she does a few letters at a time. His handwriting catching flame, hers catching flame. Ticket stubs from concerts and movies, programs from shows (some she was in that he saw), photos from cast parties, events of his, weddings, vacations, their life together.

She may regret this in the future. She doesn’t now.

She’s wasted so many tears over him. She doesn’t now.

She just quietly watches him burn.

The last vestiges of what they were go up in smoke, disintegrate among the ashes and charred wood. Eliza stares into the fire for the longest time, watches the hypnotic flicker of flames licking against the wood.

You haven’t said anything once. You’ve just let Eliza do what she needs to do.

Finally, after probably far too long, Eliza walks back over to the now-empty box. To where her glass of wine sits. She picks it up, brings it to her lips, tips her head back, downs the contents in one gulp. It burns on the way down, just a little, but it snaps Eliza out of any lingering reverie.

When Eliza turns to look at you, she’s surprised to see you seemingly wiping away at a tear.

“Sorry, just…” You offer a weak smile. “Caught up in some memories.” Eliza nods, watching you rub your hands over your arms briskly and letting out a breath.

“Thank you again for…” Eliza gestures at the fire pit. “Your friends have been wonderful, this has been…I just…it’s too much. More than enough. I can’t thank you enough. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

“Lizzie, it really hasn’t been a problem,” you begin.

“No,” she cuts you off, saying your name, an imploring utterance. “Like…from the first day we met, baker to customer, you’ve been…kind of amazing. And…I don’t really know what I did to deserve you and all you’ve done. All you do.” You shrug, arms still crossed as shelter from the chill of the night air.

“I was more than happy to do it,” you say. “I AM more than happy to do it.”

“But why? I just…I don’t understand why. We still…barely know each other, all things considering.”

“I know,” you nod. “But we know each other a little better now, wouldn’t you say?” Eliza pauses, but nods. “And…I hope that can continue. That…we could eventually reach a point where we can call each other friends.” You pause. “…I’ve drunk enough wine to admit, perhaps foolishly, that I’d hope we’re already at that point.” Eliza studies your face, flitting in and out of shadow as the fire crackles.

“I think I can do that,” Eliza says, “but you still haven’t answered my question.”

“And I don’t think I can. Not everything can be explained so neatly, Lizzie.”

Eliza looks back at the fire, biting her lip, She shiver at the gentle caress of wind against her face.

“We should go inside,” she finally says, picking up her glass.

Inside, more wine is drunk, more donuts are consumed, before you and Eliza make for your car so she can drive you home.

“I don’t know why I drink wine,” Eliza mutters, forehead resting against the window, eyes closed. “Makes me so sleepy.”

“I can see that,” you laugh as you pull off the freeway and turn on to a street that leads to Eliza’s apartment. “You gonna need me to walk you up to your door?”

“No, I’ll be fine.” Eliza’s point is negated slightly as she speaks around a yawn, but you don’t argue it.

Within minutes, you pull up to a curb outside the entrance to Eliza’s apartment complex. She lifts her head away from the window and turns to look at you.

“Thank you again,” she says. “And text me when you get home.” You nod. “…this may be stupid, but…we’re friends now.” You nod again. “…can I hug you?”

You don’t answer. You just lean over the console and pull Eliza into a hug.

Your sweater is soft and warm against her cheek, smoky with the aroma of a fire pit, your hands cold against the back of her neck, your hair tickling her nose.

As awkward as the angle of hugging in a car is, Eliza finds herself wanting to stay in your arms…just a little longer…

“Good night, Lizzie,” you whisper, finally letting her go. She murmurs good night back to you before pushing the car door open and walking up to the front door.

Later that night, as she gets ready for bed, her phone buzzes with a text from Cute Bakery Girl. You’re home safe.

She goes to bed without showering, fire and smoke lingering in her hair and on her skin and in her dreams.

***

In the weeks that follow, things slowly feel like they get better. Work goes on, rehearsals and auditions go on, brunches and dinners with her sisters go on.

Clamor about the situation with Alexander finally dies down, something for which Eliza is eternally grateful.

Missing him hurts less and less every day, far more quickly that Eliza had anticipated. It’s funny, and a little concerning. For as much as she’d said she loved him…did she really? She ahs to wonder, in retrospect.

Visits to the bakery go on. Texting back and forth with you goes on. She usually received pictures of flavors of the day or selfies of an exhausted or frazzled you, only further proving that the “Cute” in “Cute Bakery Girl” is oh so apt.

And not just in a “aw, that’s adorable” sense of “cute.” Rather…

…Eliza finds herself noticing that…you’re really quite lovely.

Granted, she doesn’t really start noticing until one weekend with her sisters at brunch. Eliza’s phone lights up on the table as she’s cutting into her meal, and Peggy glances over at the screen, asking who “Cute Bakery Girl” is. Angelica’s eyebrows raise at the question.

“She works at the bakery near where I work,” Eliza explains.

“Is she cute?” Peggy asks, smirking behind her mimosa. Eliza skewers a breakfast potato with her fork and stuffs it into her mouth in lieu of an answer.

“You know we’re not gonna judge, right?” Angelica says.

“It’s not like that,” Eliza insists.

Because it isn’t, at first. Until maybe it is.

It had just been a stupid nickname at first, a moniker in place of your real name that Eliza didn’t know at the time. And now, Eliza can’t stop focusing on the “Cute” aspect of “Cute Bakery Girl” every time she sees you.

Not just in the sense of continuing to ply her with free extra goodies whenever she visits.

“You know, we have that in cupcake format, too,” you say one day, when Eliza ordered a raspberry chocolate chip donut, following your finger to where you point at a stand of cupcakes. Indeed, they are raspberry chocolate chip as well. “May as well give you one of those, too, so you can compare and contrast, decide which format you like better.”

And not just in the bickering that follow every time you pull this, Eliza insisting on paying and you insisting it’s on the house.

“I’m going to put you out of business,” Eliza argues nearly every time.

“The bakery is doing just fine,” you counter nearly every time.

But…in the way your hair falls into your face when concentrating on a batch of donuts or cupcakes. In the smile that graces your lips whenever she walks into the bakery. In the selfies you send no matter how goofy or tired you appear in them, face clean of makeup, hair damp from a shower or mussed from work, or having just woken up. In the twinkle in your eyes whenever you tease her or describe the flavor profile of whatever Eliza’s ordered in a way that could describe one’s personality.”

“Mexican chocolate,” you say one day. “Sweet, with just a hint of spice.” Eliza face flushes at the wink that follows. Winking is new. At least, Eliza’s pretty sure it’s new. Maybe it isn’t and she just hasn’t noticed.

There seem to be a lot of things like that. Things that Eliza’s maybe just been…oblivious to.

Things like feeling a little tingle in her fingertips when yours brush against hers when exchanging cash. Or how her heart does a funny little flip whenever you call her “Lizzie,” and how she doesn’t really want anyone else to ever call her that, only you. Or how sometimes, you’ll hold out a bite of whatever she’s baking for Eliza to taste test.

“Lemon thyme shortbread,” you offer her one week. It crumbles easily between Eliza’s teeth, buttery and herby and bright. Eliza’s lips accidentally brush over your thumb when she bites and you’re barely able to catch all the crumbs from scattering all over Eliza’s shirt and the counter with how quickly she draws back from the accidental touch.

Another week, Eliza ends her day at the bakery with tea and a snickerdoodle cupcake. She’s overzealous in a bite and laughs around a mouthful of cake when seven-minute meringue frosting dollops her nose. She’s just reaching for a napkin when you lean over the counter, one hand brushing against her cheek to keep her still as the other hand wipes the frosting away with your thumb. Which then, on instinct, goes into your mouth. There’s a pause as what you did kicks in, and you dash to the sink to wash your hands, and Eliza wonders if your face feels as heated as hers does.

Yet another week, she muses aloud that she needs to stop visiting so often.

“That or I’m gonna start having to go to the gym more often,” she muses aloud.

“I mean, you walk to and from work,” you say, looking up from the table she’s cleaning with a towel. “And it’s not like you’re here every day.”

“Still…” She glances down at her midsection. “You don’t think I’m gonna start putting on some weight or anything?”

“You’re beautiful, Lizzie,” you say, draping the towel over your shoulder and walking over to her. “Even if that does happen, you’ll still be beautiful.” Eliza jumps a little as you squeeze her waist with a wink, turning to watch you head back around to the other side of the counter.

Like…this HAS to be intentional. She’d thought so from, like, the second or third visit to the bakery, but…has she really been this oblivious? Or are you actually like this with other people as well?

Not with OTHER customers that Eliza can think of. And your interactions with other bakers and cashiers seem…friendly, on the whole, but nowhere near the level of flirtation that you show her.

And is it really flirting, or does she want it to be? And if she wants it to be, is it because then her suspicions will be confirmed…or does she want you to be flirting with her because you like her? And why does she want you to like her?

She puzzles over this one weekend. One week. A couple of weeks. As she starts rehearsals for “Twelfth Night,” begins rehearsing the scenes between Viola and Olivia, the director wanting to play more into Olivia’s affections for “Cesario.” Play up the dynamics between the woman in disguise and the woman in mourning. Finds herself in physical closeness with her fellow actress in a way she has, up to this point, only experienced with men. Practices her first kisses with her fellow actress, unfamiliar yet familiar territory. Finds herself imagining you in place of Cesario, of Viola. Wakes to dreams where it’s you in her arms, your lips against hers. Avoids walking by the bakery for a week as she tries to sort things out in her head.

And when Eliza does, when she returns to the bakery, peruses over the flavors of the day, when you ask her what she’d like to try today, instead of asking about a flavor, what comes out of her mouth instead is:

“I think I’m bi.”

Both you and Eliza freeze at what she’s just said.

“I…” she stammers. “That wasn’t what I meant to say, I just…” You haven’t moved. “…I haven’t told that to anyone yet. I don’t know…” You walk over to her side and pull her into a tight hug, one hand threading into her hair. She closes her eyes, buries her face in your shoulder and hugs you back, skin a little powdery from the lingering flour in the air, the scent of sugar and baking fresh on you.

“I know it was an accident that you told me,” you whisper, “but I’m so proud of you for telling me. And I’m touched that I’m the first person you told.”

“Even though it was an accident?” Eliza says, laughing around the choked feeling in her throat. You laugh with her, pulling away to look at her, to cup her face.

“It’s safe with me, you know that?” you ask. “It’s yours to tell on your own time.” Eliza nods. You brush your thumb under her eye, despite the fact that she’s not crying.

That weekend, the next people she tells are her sisters. Of course. There are more hugs, more “I’m proud of you’s,” assurances that they love her no matter what. And no, Dad isn’t gonna flip whenever Eliza decides to tell him.

“…this have anything to do with Cute Bakery Girl?” Peggy asks.

“Peggy…” Angelica warns.

“I mean…I think so? Maybe?” Eliza finally admits. “I…I like her. I know I like her. I just…don’t know if it’s just her, or…if it’s all types of women or…like, if that even makes me bi if it’s just her, I just…I’m sure of my feelings for her, at the very least.”

She talks it out with them for a long while, and she doesn’t feel any closer to a clearcut answer than she had before telling them. But she feels a little lighter regardless, a little more comfortable in her own skin having fessed up to herself how she really feels about…not HER Cute Bakery Girl, but…who she wishes was hers.

***

She tells you about “Twelfth Night” when opening night approaches. She gives you the full run of dates, doesn’t expect you to be there right on opening night.

You are regardless, waiting for her in the lobby afterwards with a hug and all the compliments in the world, how wonderful the show was, Viola was SO great, oh, and SIR TOBY, on and on and on until Eliza’s giggling at your enthusiasm.

“I’ve always been a sucker for productions of Shakespeare that really play up the queer angles,” you say to her as you walk out into the parking lot. “That ending…got me right here.” You press a hand over your heart.

Traditionally, “Twelfth Night” ends with Viola and Orsino together, Olivia and Sebastian together. Even though, for all extents and purposes, Olivia has undoubtedly fallen for Viola in the guise of Cesario. And Sebastian, at the very least, has SOMETHING going on with Antonio. The director’s vision for the end, as “The Wind and Rain” was sung, was for Viola and Olivia to look back at each other, preparing to walk off with Orsino and Sebastian, only for the men to walk offstage completely, and the women to approach each other center stage, meeting in a kiss.

“I brought you a little something,” You say, opening the passenger side door of your car.

“Of course you did,” Eliza quips.

“Well, I didn’t want to do flowers,” you say, digging for something. “Figure that’s what most people do.” Instead, you withdraw a small Tupperware container. Inside area couple of cupcakes in Eliza’s favorite season flavor. “Knew you’d been missing these.”

“Thank you so much,” she says, hugging you carefully so as not to jostle the Tupperware. A note is taped to the top.

“Read that when you get home, okay?” you ask. You sound so serious about it that Eliza nods.

When she gets home and unwraps a cupcake, she unfolds the note.

_I sort of wanted to include some lines from the show here that I thought were appropriate, but I’m a little afraid that it would be too achingly similar to someone once in your life who will go unnamed._

_I’m no good with words, anyway. Not with writing them, at least. Maybe that’ll be a relief to you._

_But if I were bold enough, and sure enough that it wouldn’t hurt you, you can be sure I’d be quoting the Bard instead of writing what I’m writing instead. But I’m not bold enough for that, and I’m too unsure that it would make you uncomfortable. Too uncomfortable, anyway. It’s possible this letter will provide discomfort regardless._

_I’m sure about a lot of things. And at the same time, very sure about other things._

_You were wonderful, Lizzie. You ARE wonderful._

Half the cupcake goes uneaten that night.

It’s not until two nights later that Eliza can pick it up again. Before she can figure out how to respond. Texts with you have been quiet ever since that night. Probably in fear of her response to your letter.

And truthfully, Eliza doesn’t know how to respond. How to put it into words.

At least…not over text.

She feels like whatever she wants to say to you, she wants to say TO you. Not over a phone, not in a letter.

***

It’s not discussed the next time Eliza sees you at the bakery. Things carry on as normal for a bit.

As “Twelfth Night’s” run comes to an end, you end up seeing the show at least one more time before being in the audience for the final performance. Angelica and Peggy are there as well, and Eliza is more than happy to introduce her sisters to you.

“Is this Cute Bakery Girl?” Peggy asks, not even flinching when Angelica elbows her. Eliza is thankful, at the very least, that you don’t comment on it.

“Would you like to join us for dinner?” she offers to you, gesturing towards your sisters. “The three of us were gonna grab something at this little place nearby.”

“Actually, Eliza, something came up,” Angelica says quickly, “and Peggy and I actually have something else we need to get to.” Eliza doesn’t miss the way in which Angelica glances over at Peggy, and how Peggy’s resulting nod is a bit too eager, too quick to play along. And they both know she isn’t buying this for a second.

“Yeah, a shame, really, but you two have fun!” Peggy says cheerily.

“…you know, actually, I’ve got all the stuff at my place to make some pasta,” you offer. “If you like pasta.”

“I do,” Eliza says.

She ends up riding in your car with her, silence comfortable, conversation comfortable, but the air humming with…something. Something Eliza feels and can’t place, like she’s just…waiting for something to happen.

Your place is small but homey, kitchen small but well-stocked with everything she’d expect from someone who works with food for a loving.

She knew you could bake, but baking and cooking are two separate things. Thankfully, your hand at cooking isn’t too lacking, either. Although Eliza being there probably helps you some.

The pasta doesn’t turn out too bad at all— light, lemony, buttery, splash of white wine in the sauce. The only wine consumed in the meal, as the both of you opt for Iced tea to drink.

When the kitchen’s clean, Eliza follows you over to your abysmally tiny living room, big enough for a couch, a TV, and not much else. You rest against one arm the couch, and her the other, laughing over some anecdote she recounts from the show.

A lull falls in the conversation, as lulls are wont to do, Eliza watches you sip the last of your tea before softly saying your name. When you look at her, she looks down, reaches into the pocket of her jeans, withdraws the note you’d taped to the top of the Tupperware.

“You said that there were some lines from the show that you’d wanted to quote in your letter,” she begins, “but you weren’t sure if it would be too…uncomfortable for me.”

“Yeah…yeah, I didn’t want to do anything that reminded you of…” You wince. “Which, I suppose, writing a letter is. I’m sorry. Was always awkward about—” Eliza holds a hand up.

“Alexander never used other people’s words in his letters,” Eliza says. “Always his own, being a wordsmith…good with words, and he knew it.” She rolls her eyes a little. “So no. It wouldn’t have hurt me.” She glances down at the letter. “But I am curious as to what words you had in mind.” You glance down.

“…I don’t know all of them off the top of my head, I’m no actor,” you say. “But it’s the bit Viola-as-Cesario says to Olivia about the willow cabin at her gate.” Eliza nods.

“If you wanna look it up and read it to me, I’d love to hear it,” Eliza says, despite knowing the passage by heart by this point. You stare at her for the longest time before reaching for your phone. As you type the search into Google, Eliza tucks her feet beneath her on the couch, angling her body towards yours, leaning in as you stare at the screen more than her, glancing up every now and again as you read:

If I did love you…” you begin, “With such a suffering, such a deadly life/In your denial I would find no sense/I would not understand it…I would/Make me a willow cabin at your gate/And call upon my soul within the house./Write loyal cantons of contemned love/And sing them loud even in the dead of night./Halloo your name to the reverberate hills/And make the babbling gossip of the air cry out…”

Here, you look up at Eliza. And rather than crying out, you whisper a breathless “Elizabeth.” Eliza’s own breath catches.

“Oh, you should not rest/Between the elements of air and earth/But you should pity me.”

When you finish, you set your phone down, it clattering a little on the table next to your empty glass.

“Elizabeth?” Eliza questions. “Not Lizzie?”

“…Lizzie, if you prefer.”

“I do prefer. Always from you. Only from you.”

In the many times you have said something to make Eliza duck her head bashfully, to watch you be affected so similarly is…an interesting turn.

“Do you know how I would have responded to that?” Eliza says quietly, reaching out to touch your face.

“Hmm?” You look up at the brush of her fingers against your (soft, smooth, warm) cheek.

“…I would you were as I would have you be,” Eliza quotes back.

“…and what would you have me be?” you ask.

Eliza bites her lip. Does not miss how your eyes flit down at said bite. And gathering all her courage, she leans in ahs lightly brushes her lips against yours. The softest and most hesitant of kisses, lest, despite everything, Eliza’s completely misread this entire situation.

But as she pulls away, your lips chase hers, press into something more substantial, and Eliza sighs into it, melting as one hand reaches up to cradle against her neck, another tangling into her hair. It’s the softest, sweetest, loveliest kiss Eliza’s ever experienced, and perhaps not all the alcohol cooked out of the wine in the pasta, because she feels a sort of giddiness she’s only ever felt when drunk.

“Lizzie,” you whisper against her lips, kissing her again before parting just enough. “Can I confess something?”

“Yes,” she breathes.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since the first day I saw you,” is your confession. Eliza can’t help but laugh a little at it, lean in to kiss you again, long and lingering and loving.

“Can I confess something?” Eliza asks, a bit breathlessly.

“Yes,” you echo.

“…I was calling you ‘Cute Bakery Girl’ in my head before I even knew I was into you.” Laughter bubbles out of her mid-confession, mingling with your laughter. “Hell, before I even knew your name.”

“So I’ve always been ‘Cute Bakery Girl’ to you?” you tease.

“You shush,” Eliza says, poking the tip of your nose. “But yes. In my mind…and in my phone…you’ve always been ‘Cute Bakery Girl.” Her hand settle around your waist. “Although I may have to change that now…to MY Cute Bakery Girl. If you want.”

“…if YOU want.”

“I do want.”

Eliza kisses you again, sighs as you pull her into your lap.

“I like you so much…” she murmurs.

“I like you so much, too,” you respond.

This moment...this night...is maybe the happiest Eliza's felt in such a long time. She hopes there are many more nights like this one.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback welcome and appreciated.


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